


The Wine Dark Sea

by Ninjathrowingstork



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: Gen, Past Torture, Referenced Gore, Spies, Torture, damn British Stoicism, recovery from torture, sad spies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8196026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjathrowingstork/pseuds/Ninjathrowingstork
Summary: He was free and alive, miraculously. He'd survived, if broken and used, and been returned to the Circus, but Jim Prideaux wasn't truly through with his journey just because he was back in England.





	

_"Yesterday, on the twentieth day, I escaped from the wine-dark sea, but ever until then the wave and the swift winds bore me from the island. . . and now fate has cast me ashore here, that here too, haply, I may suffer some ill. For not yet, methinks, will my troubles cease, but the gods ere that will bring many to pass." -The Odyssey_

"Tell Percy Alleline what we have done"  
The words took a minute to sink in, past the shock of the gunfire, past the violent death that followed his denial.

She'd smiled, he would later remember. The blonde girl, who looked like a fallen angel with a bruised face in her prison smock. She'd looked down into the eyes of the broken man in front of her and seen his humiliation and defeat, and smiled. Later, he'd realize she was telling him it was ok; she knew what had to happen, and it wasn't his fault. Perhaps she'd been trying to pass on her strength to him, to give him the last little piece of her courage to hold on in her final moments.

In that moment, though, all he could think was that he'd failed her as well, somehow. He'd already run out of fictions to make up and stories to tell, and to his shame given them everything he had on Control's theory of the mole, Tinker Tailor, the lot. Now he'd given up her, too, and as the gore slid down the wall it was all he could do to keep down the precious little in his stomach.

"Tell Percy Alleline what we have done"  
As the icy little man's meaning took shape in his mind through the pain and exhaustion, he realized that now they'd finished with him, he was being sent back.

* * * * *  
They kept him hooded most of the time going back, still not allowing him to sleep. It must have been out of spite, he thought. There was nothing else they could wear him into saying. Not that sleep would have been an escape either; awake or asleep, the girl's face hovered in front of his eyes underneath the heavy hood.

Time passed in the new darkness, and the voyage by truck was traded for the dull roar of a jet they told him was RAF. The sound would have made sleep impossible, the way it sounded like their endless tapes of white noise, had he wanted to sleep by then. Eventually, that too ended, and he was standing on a tarmac, blinking in the sudden brightness of floodlights as the hood was pulled away he was shoved forward to the babysitters waiting to take him to the nursery.  
* * * * *  
"I ate a lot, drank a lot, slept a lot. " he'd eventually tell Smiley. He'd tell him about walking on the Cricket field, about playing chess with the guards, about how the pool was still being worked on six months after he'd left, and it'd all be true, as far as facts go.

When the truck finally arrived at Sarrat, the fatigue had settled into a kind of fog where even the shock of the sudden transition from the dark truck ride to the old grey building barely reached him. He dimly expected someone to come tell him what to expect now, instead he was given a change of clothes and sent off for a hot shower. The water was almost too hot to stand turned all the way up, but he'd do anything not to remember the hoses of ice water just then. Reality started creeping back as the water rolled over him, and he willed the haziness to keep it's hold. He knew that once the haze receded and everything became real again, the nightmares would begin. (Just one night, oh god just give me this one night to sleep.)

It was the ache in his shoulder, the bullet hole that had yet to fully heal properly and the cracked bone, that finally signaled the end of the shower. the pain was too bright, too hot to push aside for long. Toweling himself off, he took stock of the layers of fading bruises and new scars across his skin, the still-tender ribs that had been cracked when they worked him over before the first questioning, the way his shoulder drew in against his neck as tried not to jostle it more than necessary. He scrupulously avoided meeting his own eyes in the small mirror above the sink while shaving, dreading what he might find changed there. (Keep it together, Prideaux, just until Control arrives. You can tell him how they were waiting, that it was a setup. How they already knew he suspected. How you told them everything else you knew.) He wouldn't tell him about the girl at first. The old man'd have to learn eventually since there was no way he'd bypass him and tell Percy first, but for now she was yet another death on his already crooked shoulders. Maybe someone would tell him if anyone in the Aggravate or Plato networks got out. Landkron, Krieglova, Bilova, the Pribyls. (Forgive me.)

Leaving his prison clothes where they'd fallen because old military habits be damned if he'd touch the things again, he pulled on the boiler suit and pullover they'd given him, promising to find better clothes in the morning. The world still was still distant enough when he emerged that he didn't protest when the babysitter waiting outside signaled to follow him down the dim, empty hallways."C'mon, sir, they said there might be something edible we can scare up for you,and if I may say sir, you do look 'alf starved. I take it they don't feed you too well in a Cheko prison." The sudden conversational tone startled him, as did being addressed as "sir" for the first time since. . . he grunted what he hoped was acknowledgement, not trusting his own voice yet. Fortunately, his guide either wasn't inclined to further conversation, or his lack of verbal response signaled more of the extent of his weariness than intended, but the rest of their journey through the echoing corridors was spent in silence.

There was a platter of leftover sandwiches in one of the iceboxes in the cavernous canteen, his guard found. They were flat little things of tasteless white bread cut into crisp institutional triangles as a far corner of his mind noted, and filled with what might have been egg salad, maybe chicken. Not that it mattered to him, really, once the babysitter had set the platter in front of him, seated in the cavernous mess hall. One experimental bite, and they could have been filled with nearly anything and seem like the most delicious meal he'd tasted. As far as the past six months were concerned, they were. This last thought barely flitted through his mind, so completely was he occupied with the task of just eating. He faintly noticed the guard saying something cheerful before strolling out through a side door, and the sounds of a TV coming up the hall before the door closed behind him.

Suddenly, the realization that he was alone and unrestrained in an unlocked room for the first time since that disastrous meeting began to dawn. He noticed his hands trembling, and a twinge ran through his bad shoulder. Dropping the sandwich, he cradled the arm across his body and willed the shakes to fade. (Dammit, dammit, dammit. Just hold it together a while longer, Jim. Let it not be real for tonight oh please oh please just until I can get some bloody sleep oh please-) The hall door slammed back open with the reappearance of the babysitter, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Sorry about that. They've made up a bunk for you, and I'll show you there if you're ready." Looking at the platter clearly for the first time, he noticed that the sandwich he'd dropped was the last one, and that his stomach felt somewhat less cavernous now. He hoped it would all stay down. "I-I'm ready." His voice sounded foreign in his ears, and before the memory could be tamped down, he realized it was the first time he'd spoken since the grimy little room and the girl. (Don't think about it. Don't.) Standing, he silently offered the tray to the other man."I'll take care of this first, sir. Wouldn't you like something to wrap that in also?" Out of a habit he didn't remember having Before, he'd pocketed the last sandwich as he stood without noticing the action. "Uh, thank you, yes." Pulling the slightly squished sandwich out of his pocket, he wrapped it in the paper napkin the guard passed him. Mentally he thanked whatever tact or understanding that caused the babysitter to not comment on the sandwich.

Once again, the echoing silence fell as he was led back through the halls in the pre-dawn gloom until the two stopped at a door in what he vaguely remembered were officer's barracks once, and, once the door was unlocked, allowed himself to be led inside. The other man's words dimly registered, something about there being some clothes in the dresser, and the facilities being through a door, but he was too distracted to listen, not by how bloody normal the room looked but by the wide window letting in first rays of the grey dawn light, of all things. A question.

"What's that?"

"I asked if there was anything else you needed, sir."

"No. Thank you." One glance at the bed, and a fresh wave of drowsiness had swept over him.

"Very well, sir. I'll leave your key here for you."

There was something oddly humorous about holding the key to his own room, but he couldn't say what.

"Oh, and sir?"

"What's that?"

"Welcome home, sir."

Before he could think of a reply, the man was gone. (Home. I suppose this is home, as much as anywhere is.) Stumbling to the bed, he toed off his shoes and barely had the presence of mind to move the sandwich in his pocket to the bedside table before collapsing on top of the covers.

That grey dawn, Jim Prideaux's sleep was unbroken. If he had any nightmares of the past months, he never remembered them when he awoke that afternoon, and if he happened to wake up curled in a ball at the foot of the bed, his good arm protecting both his head and other shoulder, well, he'd take it over reliving the memories of other mornings he'd awoken like that.  
* * * * * * * *

When he woke, the sun was high in the sky, and he was a curled tangle of limbs wedged against the wall at the foot of the bed. For a minute, he was back in the Russian prison and nearly panicked at how late it was, that he'd missed morning lineup and the guards would be coming for him soon. (No. And I was just able to walk steadily again. Please.) Then the past night came back, and he noticed the softness of the mattress under him, almost grinning at the thought that the beds at Sarrat could be considered soft, and the size and cleanliness of the room in all its cramped, drab glory was still a far cry from recent accommodations. (Prison cells I have known.) Gingerly, he uncurled and stretched, feeling the stiffness in his limbs from the bruises and . . .everything else. The shower had helped some, but he knew it'd take some time before he felt normal again, whatever normal was now.

Taking stock of the room, he noticed with vague surprise that his shoes were still by the bed, and the sandwich on the bedside table. (God bloody dammit, of course they're where you left them. Why wouldn't they be?) Somewhat better rested now, the fog around his mind had been replaced with a kind of detachment; his surroundings were real, the journey home and everything that followed were real, they just didn't seem to matter. What had happened. . . over there. . . it had happened, too, but it was still distant and dreamlike for now. (Let it stay distant. Let me have some peace for a while longer.) Upon inspection of the room, the window overlooked the long drive up to the old building, and for a moment he marveled how green and alive everything was in the midday light. Tearing himself away from the view, he found that there were indeed some extra clothes in the dresser, and that his guard had left the key on the edge of the washstand.

The key. It was such a small thing, but he couldn't keep his eyes off it. After so long locked up, the knowledge that he held the key to the room where he was put felt odd (you've only been gone six months. Pull yourself together, man.) Still, padding silently across the floor, he tested the knob anyway. It was unlocked. He knew it would be, since the babysitter hadn't locked it before leaving the night before, but it still came as a mild surprise when the door swung smoothly open. Less surprising was the man asleep in a chair across the hall (Sloppy. They've really let security go, even before I left.) The babysitter would wake as soon as he made any sound outside the room, he knew. That could come later.

He had no orders, no timetable, no one barging in to drag him away to be questioned. Doubtless there would be inquisitors coming down eventually to debrief him; but for now the quiet of the room remained, broken only by the quiet ticking of the wall clock. Taking advantage of the small washroom and the abundance of hot water, he showered again, twisting gingerly to clean the bullet hole in his shoulder, and wincing at the sting of the harsh soap in the wound. (I'll ask about it at the medical, whenever that happens,) he decided, (it should have closed already. Should heal faster now though, with rest and an absence of . . . all that.) He noticed that, since the night before, some of the darker bruises had already begun to fade to a greener hue. It would be at least another few months before his fingernails were as thick or even as before, though.

The guard (Babysitter, not guard. Not anymore, not here) must have woken up sometime while Jim was in the shower, as there was a knocking on the door to the hall when he finally emerged again, dressed in a vest and trousers tailored for someone his size six months ago.

"Sir? Are you up sir?"

(Yes sir, I am bloody up sir, as sir might have been able to tell from goddam running water, sir.) He scowled at his shoes as he tied them. The flash of irritation that came with the thought was the clearest emotion he'd felt since returning, and the most like his old self he'd felt yet. It threatened to break through the day's numbness, so he pushed it away, shortening his response to the abbreviated "Yes, I'm bloody up." Whoever had set the room up had forgotten to give him a comb, so he managed the best he could to smooth his hair back with his good arm. He still avoided meeting his own eyes in the mirror.

Carefully pulling the jumper they'd given him the night before over his crooked shoulder, he reveled for a moment in the sudden warmth of the heavy wool before shaking himself out of the thought (going soft in your old age, Prideaux.) Finished with his semblance of a morning toilette, he unlocked the door, ignoring the small thrill of satisfaction the small act brought, and opened it to find the babysitter slouching against the opposite wall. At sight of Jim, the other man straightened up.

"Sir. If you're ready, they're still serving lunch in the canteen, so we can get you a hot meal and maybe a cuppa. How's that sound?"

A Hot meal sounded like the best news he'd had since he'd arrived, or at least since the sandwiches, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent cup of tea; he valiantly tried not to remember any other "tea" he'd drunk in the meantime.

"That sounds bloody wonderful. Lead on."

Locking the door behind him, he pocketed the key as casually as he could.

As the two made their way back through the corridors, the distant sounds of activity came echoing through the empty hallways up to them, and Jim finally recognized where they were in the sprawling old building. They'd put him in the old officer's quarters in the farthest wing of Sarrat, the ones that were rarely used in favor of the individual huts on the grounds. While he understood the convenience of putting him up in the main building, considering his arrival in the small hours of the morning, the wing was so removed from the main hub of activity, it seemed a great length to keep him away from the general population. Not that he blamed them; he was a blown spy, after all he could have been turned by the other side for all they knew. Yes, they were probably keeping him isolated until the inquisitors could arrive, until they knew he was clean. All the same, there was something about the dingy, institutional corridors that threatened to bring up memories he tried not to think about.

The food being served in the canteen was under-seasoned, overdone, institutional, and absolutely the most amazing thing Jim could remember eating. Even the tea in the samovar was perfect; too strong, and scalding hot. There was coffee, also, but it was it was long custom to avoid Sarrat coffee if you cared for the lining of your stomach, or to sleep anytime in the next day. The canteen was still blessedly nearly empty, with only a few groups of stragglers, students in the training course by their looks, quietly talking among themselves. No one even looked up when the two of them entered. (That's right children, don't look at your own future passing by you. I'm what they're making you into, after all.) That also felt more like the old him. The food helped, also, and by the time he was seated again with more food in front of him, and the babysitter had once again vanished, he'd begun to fell definitely less ghost-like. However, everything before the previous night still had that same feeling of distance and unreality, like what had happened in that-- (NO.) He was not going over that again. He'd tell Control everything when the old man arrived, and that would be it.

Once again, his new shadow re-appeared before the wave of memories could swallow him.

"When you're done, sir, they're ready for you in the infirmary for your medical."

(So soon. Not that soon, really. It is half a day since I got in, after all. Perhaps they can do something about this blasted shoulder.) All the same, his appetite had gone. Pushing away the dish as he stood, the babysitter made it vanish as quickly as he had the platter the night before. The quiet walk through the hallways again felt the same as before, at least until the smell rolling down the hallways met them.

Sharp. Clinical. Wrong. It summoned memories he'd tried not to think of; memories of mildewed tile, of the sharp sting of disinfectant, of the lingering scent of ozone and the taste of copper in his mouth. His shoulder spasmed, and he hugged the arm even tighter to his ribs. (No no no no no you're not there anymore you're home now you're back at Sarrat and you're going to have a proper English surgeon look at your shoulder. Breathe, dammit, breathe.) He was still working to keep his breathing even with his heart pounding under his bruised ribs when they arrived at the infirmary.

There were windows, at least. The old, high-ceilinged building allowed enough light to keep from becoming too claustrophobic. Kept it from feeling like that hospital he'd first woken up in. . .over there. He wasn't hooded or restrained, and the babysitter spent the entire time in a chair outside the door while he was in the examination room with the doctor. Still, it was all he could do to keep from bolting as he mechanically answered the questions about what passed for his physical state. He declined to lie down for his shoulder to be examined; lying on his stomach and breathing in the chemical smell of the padding when his wrists were so near to the metal rails of the table while his back was examined felt too vulnerable, too easy for the snap of a handcuff to once more hold him in place while unknown footfalls around him made preparations for- (Enough. He wouldn't do that to you.) As the doctor made disapproving sounds over the condition of the wound and bone, he sat stiffly on the edge of the table and focused on breathing, tuning out the doctor's mutterings unless asked a question.

Eventually, he was told, the wound would finish closing on its own. At this stage, there wasn't much else they could do but keep it clean, and for him to take it easy. (not like I'm going to be bloody playing rugby any time soon, am I?) Otherwise, he was underweight and malnourished and exhausted, (I already knew that, dammit), and one of the cracked ribs had actually been broken, but was on its way to healing nicely and wasn't that a miracle. (Some bloody miracle. It's a miracle the damn thing didn't stab me in the lung while they were working me over, you mean.) He heard the findings, as well as the laundry list of other minor injuries dimly. He heard the doctor telling him he'd eventually recover with proper food and rest, that it would take more surgery if he wanted his shoulder straight again, but that he could give him something for the pain. Then he left the room, instructing Jim to stay put, and then he was alone. (You made it , man, you made it through another medico's poking and proddings.)

He was mostly dressed again, because the exam was over and he'd be damned if he'd sit and shiver in the little room any longer than necessary, when there was the buzzing of a machine from outside the room and the lights flickered with the dip in power. As the room tilted suddenly around him, he grabbed at the exam table for support fighting to keep his breathing even. (No no Jesus Christ no keep it together Jim it's over they sent you home they're done you're-) The smell of the chemicals and ozone was thick in his nose and throat, and he tasted copper and the rubber of the mouth guard -- the gag -- and the world faded out. He barely had the presence of mind to roughly pull his jumper back on before he was striding out of the examination room, past the doctor and babysitter, deaf to the cries of both men, then he was out in the hall and he was walking and walking and walking away from the smells and machines and the memories of unpainted hallways and noises everything they'd used to break and hollow him out.

When the world finally came back, Jim found himself walking alone along the Cricket field where it bordered the woods, hunched over his right arm where it was cradled against his chest. (Oh God it was real, all of it. It was a trap and I walked into it like a damn idiot. I gave them everything they didn't already know.) Taking a few steps off the field into the woods, he braced himself on a tree and vomited in the bushes. The heaves only stopped when there was nothing left in his stomach to lose and he was drawing long, ragged gasps of air. As he caught his breath, he realized how weary he was; that the blind dash from the infirmary to the calm and relative safety of the field had been the longest walk he'd taken unaccompanied and unassisted since. . . since he'd been shot. Half a day of sleeping, and it only took a brisk walk from Sarrat's main building out to the cricket field to exhaust him to the bone. If it hadn't been so pitiful, he'd have laughed. Spotting a bench on a nearby path overlooking the field, he staggered over and collapsed, head in his hands. (I lived, Jesus they let me live and sent me back a broken wreck of a man.) He wanted to sob, to shout, to . . . something, but it was all he could manage to keep from heaving again. If there'd been anything left in his stomach, that might have also been lost despite his efforts. Noticing a wetness on his face that had nothing to do with the cold sweat running down his back, he realized he was crying anyway.

Eventually, the tears stopped and, somehow feeling steadier after his flight from the infirmary despite his pitching stomach, he struggled to his feet. The panic that had swallowed him in the infirmary had gone, and so had his breakfast and what remained of the sandwiches from the night before. He didn't think he could've held anything down, anyway. Carefully, he began the slow walk back through the woods to the main building.

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this back in June after going on my Le Carré kick, and loving how different both film adaptations were and the different ways they read into Jim's reaction to what happened to him, showing what was only implied in the book. Now that I'm trying to finish this finally, it will hopefully follow his journey to where he eventually sees Haydon that last time.


End file.
